


Evasion

by quietprofanity



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietprofanity/pseuds/quietprofanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After hearing the truth about Brian, George becomes curious about things he hadn't before. Meanwhile, John has been acting rather strange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Work contains explicit m/m sex (while drunk), sexual harassment and 1960s homophobia.

The first time George ever considered sleeping with a man was when Brian took him to see his house, although George hadn't realized it at the time.

It was back in 1962, when The Beatles were still playing during the lunch hours at The Cavern. John, Paul and Ringo had already left for the day, but George had gotten a late start and lagged behind, not eager to make the journey back home to Speke on foot.

It turned out he didn't have to. Brian caught up to him – well, _ran_ up to him, more like – on the street, and told George his car was parked nearby.

"Would you like to come with me?" Brian asked. As he caught his breath, he smiled, his head cocked to the side in that familiar way George always found comforting and a little bit silly. "I need to stop at my house for a few papers to bring to the store later, but I can't imagine it would hold you up too long."

George felt a bit out of place as he stepped into Brian's shining, immaculate Zephyr Zodiac. The feeling only increased as Brian drove past the large houses and the tree-lined streets of Childwall: the affluent, mostly-Jewish section of Liverpool. Except for the time when Brian pointed out the All Saint's Church ("That's the oldest church in Liverpool," Brian said. "Ah," was George's response.), they spoke very little, mostly listening to the classical music Brian played on the radio.

"You'll live in a place nicer than this one day," Brian said suddenly.

The statement broke George out of his reverie. At first he wondered if he was so easy to read. Then he had to smile as he looked back at Brian. Sometimes he worried if Brian's promises for the band were little more than a twinkle in the eye and a crock of shit, but at that moment, he wanted to believe.

"Yeah, but it wouldn't have the oldest church in Liverpool, would it? It'd be crap, then."

Brian laughed. For the time, it put George at ease, but when Brian stopped his gorgeous car in front of his gorgeous house, George was back to feeling intimidated again. As he followed Brian up the slate gray pathway, George couldn't take his eyes off the house's beautiful white façade with red brick trim. Having grown up in council houses, he'd never known anyone who lived in a place like this, and never thought he would, either. Sometimes, George thought, John worked so hard to bring Brian down a few pegs it was easy to forget how high he was over them in the first place.

"Do you like it?" Brian asked. There was more than a hint of pride in his voice.

"Oh … yeah," George said as Brian directed him into the house. George looked around the house at Brian's furniture, all of it modern, shiny and new (although given his father's profession perhaps that was to be expected). George groped inside his trousers' pocket for his pack of cigarettes. "It's great. Really great."

Brian beamed. "Come along. I'll show you it all."

George followed obediently as Brian led him through every room of the house, occasionally pointing out an artifact or piece of furniture of which he was particularly proud. Some of Brian's stories were interesting; others not so much. George didn't think much about it until Brian led him into one of the bedrooms.

"I believe the papers are in here …," Brian said as he opened the drawer to the nightstand next to his bed. George sat on top of the covers, smoking a cigarette and trying to hide his impatience – this had been the third place Brian looked and George was getting tired and eager to return home.

"Ah, yes," Brian said, pulling out a stack of papers. "Here they are."

George smiled. He was about to ask if they could leave when the door opened. Brian's brother Clive stood in the frame, and all George could think was he hadn't seen anyone stare so angrily at him since the last time he saw Bruno Koschinder.

"Brian … what the bloody hell is _he_ doing here?" Clive yelled.

At first, Brian looked as taken aback as George felt, but any surprise on Brian's face quickly turned to rage. "He's in the band I'm managing! What are you implying?"

"I don't care who he is!" Clive said. "Why is he on your bed?"

George blinked. He didn't know what was going on. Were the covers too expensive to be sat on or something like that? The explanation sounded stupid even to himself, but he tried to stand up, only to feel Brian grab onto his shoulder and hold him in place.

"He was just sitting here!" Brian said. He pointed his free hand toward George in the same way he had earlier showed off the artifacts in his house. "Honestly, Clive. Do you have so little opinion of me? Is that really the type of person you think I am?"

"This is all about the type of person you are, Brian!"

"What's going on?" George asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Brian said. "This isn't your fault." He gave George a slight squeeze on the shoulder and looked back at Clive. "Let's discuss this in the hall."

The two of them left, Clive slamming the door behind them.

The next ten minutes were agonizing. George stood, alone and awkward, in the unfamiliar room. Unsure of what to do, he continued to smoke his cigarette and tried not to listen to the voices outside. However, occasionally a phrase from one of them would float to his ears from beyond the door.

" … have to think about what it looks like …"

"… would never do that, never …"

"… never liked that sort of music, Brian. People know … seen the way you stare at ..."

Eventually, Brian opened the door. He looked tired and worn out – even his clothes seemed to hang more loosely on his body – it was as if he'd just been through a two-hour-long tour bus ride instead of ten minutes behind a door.

"Come on," Brian said. "Let's get you home."

George followed Brian out of the room, trying his best to ignore Clive's icy glare. He didn't know what to say, and still didn't later as he sat in Brian's car, listening to the motor. Brian was silent as well, and the quiet was nothing like the amiable companionship of the ride to Brian's house. Despite what Brian had said, George felt strangely guilty about what had just happened and it seemed, from the sour, embarrassed look on Brian's face, that he felt the same way.

"Clive's younger than you, isn't he?" George asked.

Brian nodded.

"Well, he shouldn't talk to you like that."

Brian sighed, shook his head as he continued to keep his eyes on the road. "He … Clive is just trying to …"

George looked at Brian, eagerly waiting for him to complete his sentence. Brian just shook his head again, smiled like he was forcing himself to do so.

"Thank you," Brian said.

George nodded, but he was disappointed.

They didn't speak again for the rest of the trip home. However, just as George was about to open the door to his house, Brian called after him.

"George?" he asked.

Sensing Brian was about to tell him something significant, George met him back at the car.

"George, I …" Brian looked down at his lap, then up at George again. "You know I would never put you in a situation you didn't want to be in, right? You know I would never take advantage of you."

Brian spoke so sincerely, George didn't like to admit he still felt lost. "You mean as our manager?"

"No. Well, yes, but … but I mean as a person. I would never have you do anything you didn't want. I want you to know that."

George realized his heart was beating much faster than normal. The guilty feeling resurfaced in his chest again, and he recognized it this time. He'd felt it back in Hamburg, walking out with John and Paul in the red light district and visiting the brothels for the first time – a guilt mixed with excitement and exhilaration at breaking some sort of taboo. Except this was only Brian, and Brian's house bore as much resemblance to a brothel as the Queen's Palace to his own house. And the idea that Brian could be anything like those women was so ridiculous he couldn't even consider it.

So George tried to put the feeling out of his head and nodded. "I know."

Brian smiled. "Thank you. You're too kind, George."

George waved as he watched Brian drive away. He tried to put the incident out of his mind, although he found himself thinking about it still as he laid himself down to sleep that night. As he wrapped his hand around his cock and wanked himself off, he told himself he was remembering the old days. It worked, although after he came he felt ill at ease.

Still, it wasn't until months later that he thought about it again.

~*~*~

It was June 18, 1963 and by that time, everything had changed.

George didn't live in a place nicer than Brian's, but he was fast becoming able to afford one. The Beatles were heading to the top – to the toppermost of the poppermost, as John liked to say. Their days were filled with an endless deluge of performances and public appearances, most of them featuring screaming fans or nosy, stupid reporters.

So Paul's birthday party – held at his Aunt Jin's house far from London or the urban parts of Liverpool – was a welcome relief.

It was a lovely evening, warm with a clear, starry sky. The cool night wind, combined with the bubbly champagne in his stomach, lifted George's spirits as he stood nearby Paul. George didn't talk very much during the night, but that didn't bother him. Fame had been making him more assertive lately: the constant attention and questions required him to think fast and come up with a quick and pithy remark on a frequent basis, even if Paul and John were usually the ones front and center. Still, tonight he was glad to simply shadow Paul.

George liked to watch Paul. He always had, ever since he met Paul on the bus ride to school when he was fourteen, and these days they'd been together so much that Paul's voice and gestures were as familiar as the feel and sound of his guitar. He couldn't quite explain why, other than that Paul was his friend and he always felt a measure of comfort whenever he was around, liked how someone took such an especial notice of him whenever others dismissed him as an arrogant prick just because he was quiet.

And Paul was the consummate host tonight. George followed Paul as he talked with every person at the party – most of them fellow musicians – and asked them about their careers, giving them a bit of advice, as if it were the old days (although George realized Paul revealed less and less lately). Overall, the entire event had an overall warm and friendly atmosphere, and George was feeling absolutely gear.

Then they heard John.

It took awhile before George could see what was happening; George and Paul had been far away from the source of the yells and sounds of struggle. Then, almost as soon as the fight began, the guests had crowded around John and Bob Wooler. George ran across the yard and pushed through the circle, but by the time he broke through, Billy Hanton and Billy Kramer had John restrained – each one holding onto one of John's arms. Bob lay on the ground, his bloody hands covering his face. A garden shovel with a handle stained with drops of blood lay close by.

 _Christ_ , George thought. This had been far from the first time George had seen John in a fight, but never this bad – never with a bloody shovel. And John still looked furious. He kicked and strained against Hanton and Kramer's grasps, his red face twisted into a scowl.

Pete Shotton ran up to John before George could even think of what to do, held onto his shoulders and shook him. It had little effect.

"The bastard called me a bloody queer!" John screamed.

Ringo and Gerry Masden crouched down at Bob's sides.

"He needs an ambulance!" Ringo said.

George felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, which made him jump. Then he saw who it was and felt stupid.

"Could you?" Paul whispered in his ear.

"Right," George said.

He ran inside Jin's house, gave her a quick explanation before scrambling toward the phone. As soon as the man on the other end of the line assured George someone would be there soon and hung up, George heard a woman scream outside.

George couldn't imagine how the evening could get worse. When he reached the others again, though, he saw that it very much had. John had his hand clamped around a girl's – a screaming, crying, very angry girl's – breast. Cynthia stood behind him, begging, "Stop it, John! Please, stop it!" Kramer stepped in once again.

"You're nothing, Kramer!" John screamed as the bigger man pulled him off the shocked girl. "You're fuck-all! We're the best band!"

Kramer thrust a fist near John's face. "I'll fucking K.O. you if you don't shut up."

Paul approached the fray, and George – at a loss for what to do – followed his lead. John glared at both of them. "What are you two doing? Paul, kick this fucker out!"

"I think you need to calm down," Paul said, his voice even and firm. "You're embarrassing your wife."

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" John spat.

"I mean she's crying, John," Paul said, angry this time. "Haven't you noticed? What did you think I meant?"

She was crying. John looked back at Cynthia, and then squinted at Paul – then at George. The edge of his mouth curled in disgust.

George realized there was something else going on here.

Kramer led John away. Paul offered to go with Cynthia, but she shook her head and said she just wanted to leave. Paul relented when Kramer assured him that he would talk to her.

The ambulance arrived soon after to take Bob home. As soon as it – and the taxi carrying John and Cynthia away – was gone, Paul encouraged the guests to stay and continue to enjoy themselves. They did. After another glass of champagne, George realized not much of the mood had changed at all. It was as if John's actions were little more than a bad dream.

When most of the guests were gone, Ringo asked George if he wanted to go home with him, but George said no. He wanted to stay a little later. After Ringo was gone, George met Paul in Jin's living room, where he was putting some glasses away.

"What was all that about?" George asked.

Paul looked at George over his shoulder as if he was shocked George would ask such a question. He shrugged and picked up another glass. "John was drunk. You know how he is when he's drunk." He took the glasses into the kitchen.

"He's usually not that bad, though," George insisted as he followed Paul. "All that because Bob made a joke?"

"Guess it hit a bit close to home," Paul murmured, although it was soft enough George wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard it or not.

But he did hear it, and George suddenly felt disoriented. "What do you mean?"

Paul looked at George, his large eyes even wider than normal. "You mean you don't know? At all? I mean, you know about Brian, don't you?"

George frowned. "What does Brian have to do with this?"

"Everything."

George opened his mouth to speak again, but then he suddenly understood. He closed his mouth.

"Christ, man, you really didn't know?"

"I …," George swallowed. In his mind he was back in Brian's bedroom, hearing voices arguing behind the door. The wicked tension he'd felt that evening returned at full force. "Well, I noticed he's not exactly … manly. But John makes cruel jokes ... And Brian never said …"

"Well, of course he wouldn't have _said_ it. He's still Brian, isn't he?"

George rubbed his eyes. Jesus, he was an idiot. And then it all came together.

"So that trip with Barcelona, when John and Brian went away together while we were in Tenerife …"

"I don't know anything about it," Paul said. "That's what I say when people ask me about it."

"How many people ask?"

"Enough. Too many."

"But you haven't actually talked to John about it?"

"Would you want to have that conversation?"

George shook his head. He leaned back against the wall of the kitchen.

"You know," Paul approached George, stood next to him. "We've always had an understanding with each other, haven't we? And Cynthia's had a hard enough time being left alone so often with the new baby. There's no need to embarrass either of them, right?"

"I just … I just never thought John would be the type to …"

"We don't know what he did," Paul said, although he didn't say that in the right voice, said it in the type of voice you use for talking to the press, not one of your best friends.

George suddenly felt sick, the tension from before wreaking havoc on the alcohol in his stomach, making it burn. His face felt warm with shame. How could he not have known? Clive's anger. That speech Brian made about never taking advantage of him. Christ, he'd been on the man's bed. George suddenly felt angry … repulsed, even. For a moment he hated Brian and was disgusted at John. What had Brian said to make John do that? Or was John just as much of a queer and all those girls just a lie, then? Who the hell was he associating with? George thought he knew them!

Paul touched George's shoulder, and the tension inside him jumped to a fever pitch. He thought of what he'd done alone that night after meeting Brian, and he thought of how every time he'd been with one of those girls in Hamburg Paul and John had only been a door away. He yanked himself away from Paul.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked, both surprised and hurt.

George sighed. "I'm sorry." He wrapped his arms around Paul, trying to ease his discomfort as Paul hugged him back. "I don't know what came over me," he lied. "God, this must be the worst birthday ever."

Paul chuckled. He slapped George on the back as he pushed himself out of his grasp. "I've had better, yes."

George let Paul walk him outside, even though the gesture still felt uncomfortable. As he waved goodbye, he tried to reconcile what he had just heard with what he knew of Brian and John, and himself.

George liked Brian. He liked Brian a lot. Maybe about as much as he liked John and Paul. And when he thought of how miserable Brian looked that night he felt sorry for his earlier reaction. Brian was a good man. Ever since he became their manager George always felt he had their best interests at heart. Christ, what had he been thinking? Brian meant everything he said that night. George knew that, and George knew Brian would treat John the same way. Besides, if anyone was more likely to push something like that it would be John, wouldn't it?

George asked himself how John could do that with Brian. Then, before he could stop, George asked himself if _he_ could with Brian. Or maybe not with Brian.

God, he was being daft. George sighed and tried to push it out if his head. This would all make more sense in the morning, he told himself. He'd drunk too much. He'd heard some insane news. He just needed time to work this out. That was all.

That was all.

~*~*~

One week later, George still had trouble looking his bandmates in the eye.

He couldn't quite explain why he'd been feeling so weird, why he wanted to flinch when one of the guys – especially Paul or Brian – touched him, or why jokes that he once laughed at with a clear conscience now made him fidgety. Usually he had no need to do so. They were back on tour now, and their schedules were so packed that he could temporarily lose his unease on the bright lights of the stage or in the controlled madness of traveling.

During downtime, it was a little harder. Usually John and Paul had presence and energy enough for the four of them, and while George liked having fun (or "fun") as much as the rest of them, Ringo had a tendency to throw himself more into it than George, once again leaving George as the quiet, standoffish one. It wasn't so bad. Actually, at his most calculated and predatory George could admit it worked incredibly well for him when it came to getting women. And at times like this – his most introverted, it was also nice to have them as something of a shield.

Or it was, until John seemed to turn on him.

Once, when George was trying to practice on one of the beds in their hotel room, John accidentally bumped against his back. Before he could tell himself not to, George instinctively curled in on himself, around his guitar.

"What's with you?" John asked. He sounded like he'd been keeping that question back for days.

George turned his body away from John. "Nothing."

"Nothing, eh?" John stepped closer to him.

Aiming to ignore him, George began to play on his guitar again. John gripped onto George's shoulders, massaged them. George yanked himself away from his grasp.

"Oi! Leave me alone."

John laughed, then reached out a hand and tickled George on the side. George knocked his hand away, but John was persistent. His hands kept attacking George, looking for new places to tickle or poke him.

"Don't touch me!" John squeaked, in a high-pitched parody of George's voice. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

Paul suddenly entered the room. Embarrassed, George took the momentary distraction as the opportunity to pull away from John.

"Heh. The skinny little priss's feelings are hurt. Macca, give him a hug. That'll make him right as rain."

George tried to walk into the room Paul had just left.

"So you want it to be private, eh?"

"Come on, don't pick on him," Paul said.

"Aw, look George. You got a big strong man to protect you. Isn't that sweet?"

George closed the door behind him, hating the both of them. When Ringo asked him what was wrong, George blamed it on having a bad day.

He really did try to get himself out of his funk. He knew the way he was treating the others was wrong. John kept it difficult, though. Over the next two weeks John made a game out of trying to touch him whenever his back was turned, and if he wasn't doing that, he teased George mercilessly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you needed to get laid," John said once. "Are birds not working out for you anymore? Maybe your keeper can fix that one."

George pretended he didn't hear that, even if the words made his blood run warm.

Although, that incident was nothing compared to another that occurred later. It only lasted a minute. The band was getting ready to go onstage at a concert, and as the announcer spoke, John leaned over to George, whispered in his ear.

"Paul would, you know. He told me."

George stared at John, his mouth open in shock. John just smiled.

The announcer said their names.

~*~*~

With John's revelation, George couldn't deny what he wanted, now. The thrill he felt whenever Paul was near, the thrill that hearkened back to the Reeperbahn and that afternoon with Brian – George now had to acknowledge it. He had to admit to the siren call of an experience new and different and absolutely forbidden ….

More than once he'd thought about it. More than once he'd let his gaze linger on Paul or his body a little longer than normal. Sometimes, when he did this, he would catch John staring at him, giving him the same smile he had before the concert. (George couldn't help but feel there was something weirdly smug about it.) Other times, Paul would look back, as if trying to measure something, and then he would shrug and neither would say anything.

The tension was driving George insane. At one point he even thought of talking to Brian about it, but then George remembered how he'd reacted to learning the news about him and realized how much of an insensitive jerk he'd be.

Still, he wasn't prepared to do anything about it. The idea of going to Paul and actually asking him would assuredly be humiliating, and even if Paul did want it, that wasn't an assurance he would say "yes." So he determined to put it out of his mind, anyway, even if it wasn't easy.

~*~*~

Then John, once again, forced the issue.

As soon as the latest concert was over and the four of them were all inside their hotel room in London – a suite with a living room and two bedrooms, this time – John whispered something to Mal, who stood sentinel by the door, then locked the door behind him. George noticed John carried a large cool-box under his arm.

Ringo placed his suitcase down by the side of the couch. "What was that about?" he asked.

John smiled. "I told Mal to send all the girls away. Thought we haven't had a night to ourselves in awhile."

Paul, who was loosening his tie, frowned. "You could have asked us first instead of deciding this on your own."

"Oh come off it," John knelt down next to the coffee table and placed the box on top of it. "You can go one night without cunt, can't ye?"

"That's not the point," Paul said, although he sat down in the chair opposite the couch and coffee table, assumedly considering himself to have just said his piece.

George followed suit and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the table. Ringo sat next to John on the couch.

"What's in the box?" Ringo asked.

John opened it, revealing four glasses and multiple bottles of Krombacher Pils sitting in ice.

"Thought we'd remember the old days," John said. He handed a glass to Ringo.

"As if I'd forget," Paul said. He took a glass and a bottle for himself.

"Yeah," George said. "I think we drank enough of this in Hamburg to piss it for a year."

"So you don't want any, then?" John asked.

George reached out his hand for a glass.

They spent the next hour or so like that, chatting and drinking, telling jokes as John offered again and again to fill up the glasses of the others. About three glasses in, George felt more comfortable with the others than he had in awhile. Although it helped that John was being particularly nicer than normal.

"More?" John asked, and he poured George another glass. It took a few minutes for George to realize John hadn't waited for a response.

After six glasses, George noticed John seemed more intent on filling up the others' glasses than drinking from his own. In fact, George was starting to suspect John hadn't even finished his second.

Then, while drinking his seventh, things started to get weird.

"So," John leaned forward, folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "I think we have some unfinished business here, don't we?"

George immediately felt his stomach drop. He looked over at Paul. Paul seemed about as out of it as he did. He half-sat, half-lay across the chair, rubbing his left eye with his index finger.

"John," Paul muttered. "I don't think this is the time for that …"

"Time for what?" Ringo asked. He looked the worst of all of them. He'd been lying on the couch, almost asleep, and pushed himself up off it after he asked the question.

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't seen it," John said. "The two of them can't keep their eyes off each other."

Ringo looked at George, then at Paul, then at John again. "What?" he repeated.

"He's making jokes," Paul said. He stretched as he forced himself to sit upright in the chair. "He's been picking on George for weeks."

"Oh? I don't hear him defending himself," John stared straight at George. "That's why you're not talking, isn't it? Too busy wondering what big brother Paulie's spunk tastes like?"

George could feel the blood drain out of his face.

Ringo glared at John. "What is wrong with you? Is making fun of Brian all the time not enough, now?"

"Tell me I'm wrong, George."

George immediately wished he hadn't drunk so much, wished he could think of some snappy comeback. "No," he finally said.

"'No,' I'm wrong or 'No,' you don't want to?"

"Leave me alone."

John snorted, leaned back on the couch. "Oh, I see how it is."

The chair beneath Paul screeched across the floor as he stood up. "That's enough, John!"

"'That's enough.' 'Stop it.' 'Leave me alone.' Funny, I never hear 'I'm not a queer,' from any of you."

"I think it'd go without saying," Ringo said acidly.

"I don't know …," John picked up his glass, slowly rotated it about the rim in his hand. "I don't think you can ever really know the whole of a person. Didn't you say that to me once, Paul?"

Paul crossed his arms and looked away from John.

"Come on, we're among friends, aren't we? Don't tell me none of _you_ were ever curious." John had his eyes on George again. "Isn't that right, George? No harm in trying it just once, eh?"

"John –"

"Let him fucking speak for himself, Paul!" John said, never breaking his gaze. "Come on, George. I think even you know you want it by this point. Why don't you go for it, eh? Nobody here will say a thing, will we, boys?"

George couldn't do anything but look back at John. The beer was slowing down his thinking, was making him horny. The truth was he did want it, but he wanted to walk away just as much, and at this point he didn't know what would be worse.

(He supposed the manly response to this situation would be to punch John in the face, but that was even more unthinkable than what he really, really wanted to do.)

"Come on," John cooed. "Come on, George." It was almost like hypnosis.

"John, please," Paul said. "If he doesn't want to, don't make him –"

"It's all right," George said. His voice came out quiet. He wasn't even sure if it was audible over his thick breath, but the shocked look on Paul's face, the triumphant look on John's, showed him that it was.

George crawled over to where Paul stood, sat on his knees in front of him. He reached out his right hand and laid it on Paul's thigh. When Paul didn't knock it away, didn't do anything but look at George in disbelief, George stroked up and down, moved his thigh to Paul's hip.

 _Please_ , George thought. _Please, Paul, fucking do something._ He wasn't sure if he was ready for this, but to be rejected after admitting what he wanted would be incredibly humiliating, almost devastating. The memory of a groupie doing this to him – kneeling in front of him and begging for his cock – came to mind, and he felt both disgusted, then guilty with himself.

Paul stroked his cheek, sighed. For some reason it seemed to George like an apology. Then Paul drew back and unbuckled his belt.

Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Ringo get up. John pulled him back down.

"I'm not watching this!"

"Oh no," John insisted. He wrapped an arm around Ringo's shoulder, holding him down. "We're all in this together."

Paul paused, then pushed down his trousers and underpants all at once. George closed his eyes, choosing to feel for Paul's cock rather than look at it. It felt half firm in his hand. He stroked it a few times, quick and hard. Paul whimpered softly above him. Then, before George could think about it anymore, he closed his mouth around Paul's hard cock, shoved it back in his throat.

The mass of it struck him at first. Paul's cock reached back farther in his mouth than he expected, made him gag. George pulled his mouth away, coughed.

"Are you all right?" Paul asked.

George nodded. He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, his right still wrapped around Paul.

"Got a little too excited there, eh?" John asked.

George ignored him. He tried again, taking Paul in his mouth slower this time. He began by sucking it – just the tip at first, then progressively deeper and deeper as he moved his mouth up and down the shaft. Paul responded to it well, moaning low in the back of his throat. It made George bolder, less ill at ease.

He started to use his tongue, trailing it against the underside of Paul's cock as he sucked. The taste was what struck him at first, the pre-cum salty and slightly sour in his mouth. It did something to his head. He'd been eager before, but John's teasing had left him too embarrassed to get truly excited. Now that'd changed, and George could feel his own cock strain against his trousers.

George wanted to reach down, undo his fly and touch himself, but he was still conscious of John and Ringo watching him. He opened his eyes, glanced over at them. John still held onto Ringo's shoulders. His mouth was close to Ringo's ear, whispering something George couldn't hear, and John ran a hand up and down Ringo's thigh. Then, George saw Ringo lean his head back and moan, saw John reach inside Ringo's pants.

It was strange. It should have been humiliating, having his friends watching him and wanking each other like that. Yet, among many other things, the events of the past year had given him a very strong taste for being presented as an object of desire. He felt more aroused than ever. He gripped the back of Paul's thighs, pushed him forward and took him further back in his throat than ever. This time, he didn't gag.

Paul cried out – sudden and loud. His hands moved over the back of George's head, ran through and twisted in his hair. George moaned around Paul's cock, and Paul made another desperate noise. Paul gripped onto him harder, making him cry out, then held his head still and fucked his mouth.

"Ahhh, that's it," John purred, his voice temporarily drowning out Ringo's harsh breathing. "That's it."

George wasn't sure he liked it so much. He struggled not to choke, breathed harshly through his nose, as Paul hit the back of his throat again and again. Yet it didn't last long. Paul let out a strained, harsh cry, then came.

The liquid – salty and hot – filled his mouth, dribbled down his lips as Paul pulled out. George struggled to keep it in as he groped for the nearest glass he could find, then spat into it, panting when he was done.

George wiped his mouth, trying to clean it, although the taste of Paul's come lingered on his mouth despite his efforts. He raised his head to look at the others. Paul had collapsed back into the chair, his trousers tangled about his ankles and his cock mostly limp in his lap. Ringo looked back at him, his eyes wide and confused. George had no idea what was going through his mind, wasn't sure if it was judgment or arousal or pity. Then there was John, smiling, triumphant John. His eyes made George want to sink into the floor. George was still incredibly horny, his cock fully erect inside his clothes, and even though he was on his hands and knees on the floor, crouched so John probably couldn't see him well, it seemed like John nevertheless knew everything he felt.

"Well, that was far too short," John complained. "I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you going for longer, Paulie. Are you that bad or is George that good?"

"Fuck you," Paul said.

John laughed, ran a hand through Ringo's hair. "Look at the poor things. I just barely got Ringo here ready. And George looks likely to explode. You're not going to leave the boy like that, are ye? He's so desperate and ready for you. I bet he'd even take it in the arse for you."

George inhaled sharply. He glanced back at Paul, hoping he didn't look as pathetic as he felt.

"Why don't you take off your clothes?" John asked. "Maybe that'll get him going again."

"John …" Ringo protested. "They don't have to. We can just …"

"No," George stood up slowly, his legs shaky and weak. "It's okay." He took off his jacket, pulled his turtleneck over his head.

"George …" Paul got to his feet, pulled his pants up around his waist in an attempt to cover himself. "You don't have to do that. I can suck you off, too. I don't mind."

"I'm fine," George said, bitterly this time. The truth was he wasn't fine, but he wanted more and he was tired of the others protecting him. He wasn't 17 anymore, and was starting to resent how they continued to treat him as if he were.

George removed his trousers. He tried to ignore how exposed he felt as he lay himself on the coffee table, let his legs hang open. Paul stood at the end of the table, near George's feet. Paul palmed his cock, then leaned over and stroked George's hair.

"You should turn over," Paul said. "The girls say it's easier that way."

"Oh, yes," John said. " _The girls_ say that."

"You're one to talk," Paul snapped back.

John glared at him. George didn't want to say anything, but considering John's hand was still buried in Ringo's pants, he thought Paul had a good point.

George turned himself over, his arms wobbling as he got on all fours. Paul's hands slowly ran up his back, gently pushed his shoulders down to the table. George let his upper body collapse to Paul's guiding touch, folded his arms together and rested his forehead on them.

"I suppose you have something for this?" Paul asked John.

George heard John laugh, then the sound of something being caught. After a minute, George felt a cool, slick liquid being slathered on him. He moaned through his gritted teeth. It made him feel vulnerable, yet the sensation was so good it was tempting not to care.

Paul's fingers pressed lightly against his entrance, ready to push in. "Tell me if this hurts."

"Pansy," John said.

Paul pushed one finger inside. It didn't quite hurt, but it didn't go in easy. The finger felt far thicker than it should have, and whenever Paul pulled away George's body seemed eager to push it out.

George was unsure if he could do this, was almost ready to call it off. Then Paul leaned over him, stroked his neck with his left hand.

"Relax," Paul whispered. "It's okay, George. It's just me. Don't worry about John. Just let go. Let go and it won't hurt. I promise."

George moved his head so he could see Paul's face. Paul smiled at him, and while a part of him resented being talked to this way – thought of Paul giving this same speech to any number of girls he bedded, another part of him remembered getting the same smile whenever Paul greeted him in the morning on the bus, whenever they snuck away to meet John at the art school, whenever they weren't playing in Hamburg and had a moment to themselves. Something inside him ached, and even though he still wanted this desperately, he wished it hadn't happened this way.

Paul tried to push another finger inside, and George forced himself to relax, told himself to do so over and over. The second one went in easier, and eventually George found he could tolerate the extra intrusion. Then, just when he started to get used to it, he felt something much thicker enter him.

The first thrust shocked him, took his breath away. He heard Ringo say something, but it seemed to be strangled into another cry of pleasure. George told himself to put it out of his head, to try to enjoy it.

Paul started to move inside him. Relaxed, George had to admit it felt better than he had expected. It didn't feel as satisfying as fucking someone. Even now his cock ached to be touched, was stiff and wet with precum. Yet being entered this way, feeling his body adapt to the invasion before forcing it out again; it felt incredible, sent waves of pleasure throughout his body.

The thrusts had come slowly at first, but as George became more and more used to it, Paul increased his pace, pushed harder. George tried to push back, but his body still rocked against the table. He had been mostly silent, but now he couldn't keep back the small, embarrassing noises of pleasure.

Despite what Paul had said, George looked over at John and Ringo. They weren't watching them anymore. John had Ringo's cock out of his trousers now, stroked him rapidly. Meanwhile, John's face was buried in Ringo's neck, sucking on it. Ringo tossed his head back and, with a loud, low groan, came over John's hand.

George couldn't take it anymore. "Paul. Paul, toss me off. Please."

"Hold on," Paul said, his breath heavy. His thrusts came faster than ever, and before George realized what was happening, Paul's second orgasm rang in his ears. He came deep inside him, although as Paul pulled out, George could feel Paul's come dripping out of his body.

"Please," George moaned again, and Paul finally, mercifully touched him. It only took him three strokes before he came.

When it was over George let himself drop onto the table. His limbs felt weak. His eyes had trouble focusing. It was if, he realized, his body suddenly remembered he was drunk. He could feel Paul's hands on his shoulders again, let himself be coaxed until he was sitting upright.

When George did sit up, when he had a chance to look at the others, he saw Ringo looked even worse than he did. Ringo lay half-sprawled on the couch, his eyes fluttering, as he was struggling to stay awake, until they finally closed. Meanwhile, John wiped his come-stained hand on Ringo's trousers, smiled at the others.

"Well, I think we learned a lot," he said. "Ta." He stood up and walked into one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind him.

George looked at Ringo, who showed no signs of waking up again anytime soon, then at Paul. Paul continued to rub his shoulders, a smile on his face.

"You all right?" he asked.

George nodded.

"That's good. I'd worried you weren't. You looked so nervous, I couldn't be sure. But, well, John said you'd told him you wanted me to do this. I guess he was right."

The second-to-last sentence hit George like a splash of cold water. He suddenly didn't feel so drunk anymore.

"John … John said _I_ told him I wanted you to fuck me."

Paul nodded. "I couldn't believe it. You reacted so badly to hearing about Brian but … well, you're all right now, aren't ye?"

George didn't respond.

Paul's face fell. "George?"

"I … I should take a shower."

George stood up, and stumbled toward the bathroom, ignoring Paul's entreaties as he closed the door. Part of him felt bad about it, knew he was making Paul worry, but another part of him, a bigger part, didn't care.

End Part One.


	2. Chapter 2

They weren't talking about it.

At least, that seemed to be the unspoken consensus among them. The car, which was taking them back to Liverpool for a temporary visit home, was uncharacteristically quiet. In fact, they hadn't said anything to each other all morning. Paul had laid a hand on George's shoulder as they left the hotel, leaned his head toward George's ear as if to whisper something in it, but George had pulled away before he could. Ringo was silent as well, all strained smiles and nods. A couple of times, George saw Ringo lift his finger to his neck and stroke the bright red circles there, but soon after he would jerk his hand away then look about him, like a boy caught shoplifting. And John, of course, didn't say anything except to Brian, and when George watched them speak it seemed like John was preening.

John sat across from George now, and George refused to look at him. George already felt like crap. Evidently, the beer had botched his ability to feel pain last night, because he'd awoken this morning sore and stiff in his neck and shoulders. His arse was another unfortunate matter entirely. Even now, just sitting in the car, he felt a dull ache inside him that would turn sharp if he moved too quickly. If Paul hadn't said what he did last night, George guessed the soreness might have made him feel guilty or embarrassed, but now he just felt angry.

John had lied to him. John had lied to all of them. And George had no bloody idea what to do about it.

There was always a certain amount of bad – even horrible – behavior that he and the others could expect from John, and they would have had to have been idiots to think that it couldn't be turned on them at any moment. They had to tolerate it, anyway. The band was, after all, John's group (when it wasn't Paul's). Still, this was above and beyond anything John had done before. George felt used, felt tricked.

But did he have any right to feel that way? He had wanted Paul, and while he hadn't liked why it happened, he had liked what they had done. Buried beneath the anger and frustration, there was a part of him that reveled in his aching body, that could close his eyes and feel Paul entering him again, that could feel his face flush with the memory.

Still, Paul was his friend. Christ, he was far more than a friend, although that phrase sounded stupid, like a euphemism for the wrong thing and insufficient to describe how George felt about Paul. Paul was one of the most important people in his life: the boy he followed, admired and wanted to be like. George loved him as much as he loved his siblings. The only other person he felt that way for was John, but since John had always been Paul's friend first, he wondered if his feelings weren't, in some way, an extension of his love for Paul.

George wasn't a total innocent. He knew the difference between sex and – fine, he could say it – love. He'd had sex with many women he didn't love and he'd enjoyed it and that was all right because it was just sex. But to have "just sex" with someone who meant a lot to you and say that was all not a big deal … God, why the hell did that bother him?

 _Well_ , George thought. He looked over at Paul. Paul sat next to John, his legs and arms crossed in on himself, his face turned toward the window so that George could only see him in profile. _I do spend all day singing and playing love songs. I can be forgiven for a little sentimentality._

That didn't meant he liked feeling this way, though. It wasn't as if he had entered into this hoping Paul would marry him. His feelings made no sense.

The car lurched, and Ringo bumped into him. Ringo muttered an apology and touched his neck again.

George wondered how long it would be until everything felt normal. He hoped it would be soon.

~*~*~

After they returned to Liverpool, George spent a few days alone at his parents' house. It was a welcome respite, broken only when Paul attempted to call him the day after they came home. George had, luckily, been out at the time, which spared George having to think up an excuse not to talk to him. George knew he had to speak to Paul eventually, but he had no idea what to say, unsure if telling him about what John did would anger or embarrass him.

Then, on the fourth day of their vacation, Jim McCartney knocked on the Harrisons' door.

"Paul wants to see you," Mr. McCartney said. "He said to tell you that you don't have to talk. I don't know what that means, but he was adamant I say that."

George caved. He met Paul at Mr. McCartney's house the next evening.

Paul was the picture of awkward composure. He smiled and looked George in the eye when he arrived, although Paul hesitated before hugging him. Paul scratched his face with his index finger, and when he spoke, every word was underscored with soft, nervous laughter.

"I'm happy you're here," Paul said. "You want to see a film? Brian got me tickets and a car to go to the latest _Carry On_. We can come late and leave early so we won't be noticed."

George agreed. While riding in the car to the theater, George wondered if he should have. After all, considering what happened this could be very much like a date. When the two of them settled into their seats and began watching the film, though, George realized how ridiculous he had been. Paul had his arms and legs folded in on himself as he sat in the theater seat, and after the first ten minutes George stopped trying to read Paul's body language and just watched the film.

All in all, the film was about what George had expected: like the others in the series except this one was about cabbies. Still, the two of them spoke mostly about it when the movie was over.

"It's nice to do something normal, isn't it?" Paul asked at one point. "That was all right, wasn't it?"

He spoke as if the answer was very important to him, so George said yes.

Still, by the time the driver dropped George off at his house, he convinced himself everything was, indeed, all right.

~*~*~

George couldn't decide if his evening out with Paul left him relieved or disappointed, but at the very least it put him in a slightly better state of mind to see John again.

He needed it, because John became insufferable. After their short trip home, Brian called them together again at Abbey Road to begin preliminary planning for the next album. John never mentioned it, but he kept them aware of it, continued to subtly remind them of it. A few times, when trying to get their attention, John would call out "Hey, queers!" or "Oi, fairies, over here!" When George tried to sit next to Paul once, John said, "Ah, looking to get close again, eh?" Another time, when George reached for a microphone, John grabbed it first, curled his mouth around it and made sucking noises, then handed it back to George.

The other two had unofficially decided the best way to deal with this was to ignore John or blow him off – Ringo with a long-suffering sigh, Paul with a roll of the eyes. George tried to follow their example, but it made him bristle. What the fuck did John have to be so smug about? Wasn't it his idea? Wasn't he right there with all of them?

A few days later, George realized something about the tauntings he hadn't before: he never did it when Brian was in earshot. It was only whenever Brian left the room that John ratcheted up calling them "poofs" and the humping gestures. While Brian was there, the comments ... well, they didn't exactly stop. John would still occasionally make a crack at Brian, like he usually did, but he also stayed close by Brian's side. He sat next to Brian whenever Brian instructed them to do something, and whenever Brian finished talking, John would answer him with a mock-flattering compliment or pat a hand along his back or thigh.

This annoyed George far more than he wanted to admit.

~*~*~

It turned out he wasn't the only one.

He'd come into Abbey Road a little later than usual that day. As he passed one of the storage rooms, he heard Paul and John's voices coming from behind the door. He was about to make his presence known when Paul's next sentence reached his ears, loud and clear.

"You make an embarrassment of yourself."

"You're one to talk, you queer."

George edged closer to the door. It was open slightly, allowing for him to peer into the room. Paul sat on one of the amplifiers, arms crossed. John, meanwhile, stood on the other side of the room, his fingers entangled in a ball of black and colored wires. Occasionally he yanked on one of them, or threaded one this way or the other with no conceivable pattern, making George wonder if he was trying to undo the knot or make it worse.

"Could you bother to at least look at me when you insult me?" Paul asked.

John didn't respond. He dug his fingers into the knot, pulled against the wires so they were stretched around his fingers.

"Cat's cradle."

Paul groaned in disgust. With a swift movement that made George flinch, Paul stood up and smacked the wires out of his hand.

"Can you at least attempt a serious conversation?"

John raised his eyes – thin, beady and glowing with anger – to Paul's. Then he smirked. "You want to talk, eh? You want to tell me about this new side of yourself you've discovered? You want to tell me how good it felt to stick your cock into your little brother's a –"

"Why did you lie to me, John?"

If there were any bit of hurt behind the question, George couldn't hear it. Paul hissed, almost growled out the words. They made George freeze, and if he looked any less dumbfounded than John did right now, he'd be very surprised.

Christ, Paul had figured it out? Well, of course he would. Paul wasn't stupid. Still, Paul hadn't told him anything about it. Not that he allowed Paul any opportunities to talk to him …

John recovered from his shock much quicker than George did. His lips curled into a smirk.

"'Lied,' Paul? I told you George wanted you. He certainly looked like it when he was begging you to toss him off."

George's face suddenly felt warm; some stupid lizard part of his brain was excited by the words, his body physically thrilled at the memory. Then, after he recognized the feeling, the anger set in. Was every bit of what happened going to be used like this? This was what he was going to get for going along with it – having it thrown back in his face for God knows how long? He gripped onto the door, not sure if he wanted to open it or not, when Paul spoke again.

"You know you're not innocent in that," Paul said. "And, I might add, you haven't been innocent for a long while."

John gripped onto Paul's shirt and slammed him back against the wall. The movement was swift enough to startle George, and he was even more shocked when he got a good look at John's face, now red and curled into a snarl.

"You son of a …"

"Oh fuck off!" Even though John still had a good grip on him, Paul glared back at him fully. "I mean, why, John? Do you trust us that little? We never would have said anything. We would have protected you."

"Like you did at your birthday?"

"You punched Bob!" Paul threw up his hands. "You punched Bob and you grabbed a bird's tit and you wanted me to defend you? You wanted to be the good guy?"

"Ugh." John pushed Paul once more against the wall before letting him go. He walked in the direction of the door, and George was about to bolt when Paul spoke again.

"You know, if you didn't make so much of it, it wouldn't be a problem," he said. "God, I doubt it was a real affair, anyway."

John whirled back around. "What?"

Paul raised one eyebrow. He pressed his tongue against his top lip, as if he was considering something. Then he frowned again. "You keep insisting you're not queer. So I suppose you took _our_ manager on vacation for another reason, then?"

"Maybe I wanted to see Spain."

"Or maybe you wanted to show Brian just who's the real leader of the band."

George's eyes widened. He'd never heard Paul say anything that nasty to John. That couldn't really be what it was about, could it?

"Oh?" John took a step toward Paul. "That's what you think, is it? That's what you think this is all about."

"Yes," Paul said. "Yes, I do."

John scoffed. Then after a moment, he laughed. "So are you the type to do that, Macca? Would you suck Brian's cock for the chance to get your name back in front of mine on the song credits?"

Paul picked up the tangle of wires off the floor. "I've told you how I feel about the songs already."

"You didn't answer my question." John followed Paul as he walked about the storage room, looking in boxes as if he were trying to find a good place to put the ball away. "I think you would. You've always been a fucking prostitute. Wanting us to wear suits. Wanting us to bow after every song. Wanting us to act like little wind-up monkeys."

Paul opened another box, then closed it again. "Piss off."

"Is that why you fucked George?"

Paul stopped looking among the boxes. George had the feeling he should leave now, should walk away and pretend he never heard anything, but he couldn't make his legs move.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's always been nice having him in your corner, hasn't it?" John asked. He'd turned so George could see him, his mouth stretched into a smile that showed all his teeth. "Your baby brother, ready to go along with anything you want. You can always count on his vote, can't you?"

"You're being stupid," Paul said. George tried to ignore the waver in his voice.

"You're the one who said it's all about power."

"That's not what I said."

"That's what you meant," John said. "You said I'd only go queer to make meself head of the band. But you wouldn't fuck George to show he was on your side? You're going to tell me that never went through your head?"

Paul stared back at John. George waited for him to say something, then begged in his mind for him to say something.

Paul didn't.

A horrifying numbness seized George's body. He'd heard enough. He tried to move away, accidentally kicked the door.

John and Paul immediately turned their heads toward him. John looked surprised, but Paul's mouth dropped open in horror.

"George!" he walked toward him, left hand outstretched. "George, that wasn't the only reason. I didn't mean it to be … I swear, I …"

Paul continued talking, but George didn't hear the rest. He'd already started storming out the door.

~*~*~

Two hours and two sore feet later, George finally burnt off his rage. Not that he was ready to go back and see either of them, but imagining punching John and Paul in the face had started to lose its novelty.

He'd found his way to Regent's Park, walked along the Inner Circle before stopping and sitting down to rest by the side of the lake. The weather was decent enough: overcast, but the breezes cooled what would have otherwise been a hot summer day. The lack of sun also kept more people indoors. Some people in the park still recognized him and stopped him. It was hard to pretend to be pleasant, but if the day had been sunny it could have been worse.

George watched the breeze ripple the blue water of the lake. He tried to take comfort in the beauty of it, but it wasn't quite enough. The feeling of being used, of being suckered, was still too overwhelming. He'd been a fool to be so concerned about whether or not Paul had been with him out of some notion of caring or friendship, or whether he saw what happened as something that had meaning or not. Obviously it didn't. Obviously it was all some game the two of them were playing that just happened to run him over. Him and Ringo and … and Brian, actually.

But George had been thinking that for the past two hours, and now he just felt tired of it all. He was sick of John's jokes and bullshit, of the awkwardness between himself and Paul that neither of them seemed able to get over, of how he couldn't decide if he'd wanted this … he didn't know what to call it, this "queer" thing to not be a big deal or to actually matter and …

Christ, he could practically hear John in his head calling him a stupid girl.

He wasn't getting anywhere, George thought as he stood up and wiped the grass from his trousers. What could he do about this anyway? What had happened had happened and they were still his friends. Not that he felt ready to forgive them yet.

Maybe he should just start walking again.

George made his way to the York Bridge, then came to the walking path near the Outer Circle. He'd walk along it until he found a street to take back to the studio, he decided.

As George started west around the Outer Circle, a car horn honked behind him. He noticed it, but dismissed it. It was probably some steamed driver. Then after it honked a third time, he had a suspicion it was for him, that it was some fan trying to get his attention. On the fourth honk, he whirled around and raised two fingers at the car.

"Piss off!" he yelled.

The car swerved across the lanes to his side of the street, and he saw whose it was. "Oh crap," he whispered under his breath. He ran across the broad swath of green lawn to the street.

The right-side car window was already opened. Brian poked his head out of the door as George met him at the side, panting for breath.

"Please say you don't greet everyone you don't know like that," Brian said. He meant it as a joke, of course, but to George he sounded a little exhausted and not a little bit angry.

"No," George responded through his panting. "I'm sorry, Brian."

"Get in the car."

George obeyed. He walked around the car to the passenger's side, kept his hands close to himself as he sat down and closed the door. He looked down at his knees, feeling like he'd been caught playing truant, which he supposed he had.

The Zodiac jerked as Brian backed it up, then took a sharp turn onto the correct side of the road.

"I've been searching for you for hours," Brian said as he eased back into traffic. "I missed an important meeting with a member of the BBC for this, but Paul was afraid you'd run off forever. Is something going on?"

George blenched. Part of him wanted to tell Brian, but he knew that wouldn't be right, either for his own sake or for any of the rest of theirs.

"No," George said. "I just lost my temper. I was on my way back."

"Lost it over what?"

"Personal things," George said weakly.

Brian stared ahead at the road. He seemed to be considering something.

"Well, you're working them out with him because you can't be doing this," Brian said. "You and the other boys have an album to record."

"I know."

Brian had already driven onto Park Road, then signaled left to turn down Lodge Road.

"Wait, we're going back to the studio now?" George asked.

"You are," Brian said. "You're going to work this out and then I'm going back to Liverpool to set up a venue for the Pacemakers early tomorrow."

George felt sick. He'd been prepared to return to the studios on his own, yes, but the idea of talking to Paul about everything right now, and right in front of Brian?

"No!" he said. "No, no. I can't talk to Paul yet. Can't we do it tomorrow?"

Brian sighed, shook his head. "It takes four hours to get back to Liverpool. I want this over with and I don't want you running off again. I have enough trouble getting John on a schedule. We can't disrupt this anymore."

"Please, Eppy?" George begged. "I won't leave."

Brian turned down Lodge. An idea occurred to George, one that made his stomach twist with excitement.

"What if I stay with you?" George asked.

Brian glanced at him. "What?"

"You're going to Liverpool, right? I can ride along. That way you'll know where I am."

"I see," Brian said. "And how do I know you won't refuse to come back tomorrow when I pick you up at your parents' house?"

"Well," George said. He thought for a moment, unsure if he should give in to the urge that had suddenly come upon him. (Well, not _so_ suddenly. He had, after all, considered it before, if only briefly.) "I was, um, hoping I could perhaps not stay with them. Actually I … hoped I could stay with you."

Brian's eyes widened. He pulled off to the side of the road, his eyes locked on George as he turned off the car.

"What are you doing?" Brian asked.

The question made George feel stupid. God, what was he thinking? That Brian would jump just because George offered? As if that was automatically the way he was. Christ, Brian might not even find him attractive. He'd been so dumb. He started to apologize.

"John didn't put you up to this, did he?" Brian asked.

George blinked. "No. No, this is all me. I swear. Unless you don't want it. I mean, then …"

"George …" Brian reached out his hand, placed it on George's knee. "Do you remember what I said to you last year when you came to my house? How I wouldn't make you do anything you didn't want?"

George's mouth felt dry. He nodded.

Brian squeezed George's knee. "I said that for a reason. If I didn't … well, if I didn't want to … I would have just said that to you. Do you understand?"

George's heartbeat felt like it had jumped a hundred paces. He didn't know what to say.

Brian suddenly frowned. He let go of George's knee.

"No, I … this is all wrong," Brian said. "George, I'm sorry. You're adorable, and … No, nevermind. I've gotten carried away. I know you like women."

"John likes women, too," George said.

Brian's eyes widened. "How did you hear about that?"

George didn't answer. "I mean it," he insisted. "I'm not making a joke. Or trying to get something from you. I just …" He paused, unsure of what to say, unsure if he could say anything that would be genuine and not offend Brian. "I want to try it, you know? With you. Because I like you quite a lot and …"

He stopped talking again. He wanted to say, "and I won't do it for my name in the front on a record," but he wasn't going to insult John like that in front of Brian.

And, he'd answered the question he'd asked himself earlier. Yes, it should mean something. If he was going to do anything queer, why shouldn't he do it with someone who'd appreciate it? Why shouldn't he do it with someone who would just enjoy it? Perhaps it wasn't right. Perhaps George was unintentionally implying he felt something more than he really did for Brian. But, God, it had to be better than what had just happened, right? There had to have been something better than that?

"I like you quite a lot too, George," Brian said, speaking as if he'd picked out every word especially carefully, like he was searching through a stack of records for the perfect album or song. "But you're young, and …"

"I'm two years younger than John."

Brian sighed. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry. You just seem so much more … no, never mind. I don't mean to insult you."

He turned on the car. George exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. He could feel his palms sweat.

"You can stay with me. If you change your mind in the next four hours, I'll understand."

George nodded.

Brian drove away. Neither of them spoke, so Brian turned on the radio, letting The Shirrells' "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" overtake the silence of the car.

~*~*~

There were a few moments of uncertainty, but four hours later George hadn't changed his mind.

The sky was darker as the two of them left the car, the twilight accelerated by the clouded sky. George almost tripped once as he followed Brian up the slate gray path to his house, although he recovered quickly. Brian held open the door for him as he stepped inside.

The lights inside the house were off. As Brian closed the door behind them, George waited for him to turn the lights on. Instead, Brian took George's hand, led him through the house and up to his bedroom.

Brian opened the door and time seemed to slow down. George sat on the foot of the bed. Brian, meanwhile, stood by the nightstand – where a lamp dimly illuminated the room – and unbuckled his watch. As Brian started to unbutton his jacket, George looked away, instinctively giving his boss his privacy. George removed his shoes and socks, then, as he took off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt, he reminded himself he was going to see Brian naked in a few minutes. _Weird_ , he thought, and then wondered why.

George turned around to look at Brian, pulling one of his legs up on the bed as he did so. Brian was still turned toward the nightstand, although he had his shirt on, was unbuckling his belt. Then, he seemed to realize George was staring at him and turned back to look.

 _You should do something_ , said a voice in George's head. George coughed, then ran his tongue slowly along his upper lip. He looked into Brian's eyes as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it open a little more after each button.

Brian stared back at him, confusion in his eyes. George let his hands drop.

"Sorry," George murmured. "Was that sexy? I can't tell. I don't know what you types like. Christ, you'd think blokes would be easier to figure out."

Brian laughed. "No, I assure you, it can be quite the challenge."

George scratched the side of his head, laughed. Brian sat next to him on the bed. He cupped a hand underneath George's chin, then leaned in.

George's first instinct was to draw back. The sudden intimacy of it shocked him. A part of him rebelled against the idea, thought it too much, going too far.

 _Oh, that makes perfect sense_ , said a sarcastic voice in his head.

George parted his lips, let Brian in. It felt nice, not difficult at all, and, out of the many people he'd kissed, Brian was certainly on the higher end of the scale. Paul and he hadn't kissed, George suddenly realized.

Brian pulled away, reached up one of his thumbs and traced along the line in George's cheek.

"You're fine," Brian whispered. "You're lovely."

George smiled. ' _Lovely_ ,' he thought. This was different.

"Um, how do you like to do this?" George asked. "Are you going to fuck me or does it go the other way for you? I don't mind either, really."

Brian removed his hand from George's cheek. "Honestly, I … I usually don't do that."

George squinted. "What?"

"I'll do it if he wants it, but it's not what I prefer. It's not what I like."

"You don't _like_ it?"

"No," Brian said. Then, after a pause, "You seem confused."

"Isn't that like … I don't know ... someone who loves chocolate and won't eat chocolate bars or, um," the corner of George's mouth curled, "manages a rock band but hates rock music?"

Brian frowned. "I don't hate rock music. And you can drink chocolate. There's more than one way to do things."

"Well, I know that," George said defensively. "It's just … what do you want then? Like, when you see a bloke you like. What do you want if you don't want to bugger him?"

Brian chuckled. For a moment, he couldn't meet George's eye. "Many things."

After a few minutes where Brian wouldn't say anything George leaned forward, whispered, "Like what?"

Brian took a deep breath. "It's difficult to explain. I suppose …" Brian bit his lip, "I like to touch. Although it's more than that. To me, there's … there's something about a beautiful man or boy that inspires … I don't know. It sounds idolatrous, but I almost want to say worship. I don't need to demand anything. Just being in his presence, being able to touch him when I'd otherwise never be allowed to … sometimes it's enough."

George supposed he could understand that a little. Brian turned to him, laid a hand on the back of his neck and kissed him again. When the kiss ended, George tried to hug him, but Brain laid his free hand on George's, turned his head to the side and kissed along George's neck. George closed his eyes and leaned back.

"Is it ever not enough?" George asked, but as soon as he completed his sentence Brian kissed him again, kissed him hard enough that George felt himself being pushed back onto the bed. George let Brian do it, wrapped his arms and legs around Brian as he squirmed against him on the mattress. After a few minutes of this, he'd forgotten he'd asked the question at all.

Brian felt heavy on top of him, although his touch was gentle. George moaned as Brian's hands stroked along his body, one entangling in his hair while the other skirted along the side of his torso, underneath his shirt. George pushed Brian away for a moment so he could sit up, wriggled out of it. Brian laid his hands on George's belt, and George nodded. As he unbuckled it, George reached for Brian's.

George took in the sight of Brian naked. He was slender, although his flesh was thick about his body, especially near his stomach. He was already somewhat hard, and George did a double-take when he saw his penis before he remembered Brian was Jewish.

Brian ran his palms along George's thighs, and George let Brian coax them open. Brian kissed along the inside of them. George felt his chest tighten; having Brian so close embarrassed him a bit, but also excited him. He could feel his cock swell. When it was half-hard, Brian looked at him, as if asking permission. George nodded, and Brian nuzzled his face against George's groin.

"Oh!" George exclaimed, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. He could feel Brian's hand wrap around the base of his cock, feel him stroking it firmly. When George opened his eyes he could see Brian had leaned in close to his cock. Brian rubbed it along his face.

It felt good, his sensitive flesh rubbing along the slight, bristling stubble of Brian's cheeks. He wanted to beg Brian to go faster, to buck his hips until he came on Brian's face. Then he looked at Brian again, closely this time, and felt guilty. When he'd sucked Paul off he'd been embarrassed, had to get himself used to the idea and over his disgust before he could do it. Brian was different. His face was flushed and his mouth open wide in bliss as he played with George's cock. George wasn't sure if he could be so enthusiastic for Brian.

"Is .." George moaned, interrupting himself as Brian began to lick along his skin " … can't I do anything for you?"

Brian kissed the head of George's cock. "By allowing this you're doing worlds for me."

George felt an excited swelling in his chest. Then he flinched. He wished it wasn't like that.

Brian let go of him. "Are you all right? Do you want to stop?"

George blinked, realized what his face must look like. "No. No, sorry. I want this. I just don't understand what you like or … I don't know."

Brian stood up, leaned over and kissed George on the cheek.

"I can show you what I like," Brian whispered. "Would you lie on your stomach for me?"

George nodded, although he was confused as to why Brian wanted him to do this. Hadn't he said he wasn't interested in that?

George laid himself down on top of the covers, his cock pressed against the soft fabric. Brian ran his hands up the back of George's thighs, fingertips brushing lightly against his arse. George clenched himself instinctively, gripping onto the coverlet. Then Brian kissed his lower back, and George relaxed.

"Can you spread your legs?" Brian asked.

George stretched himself out, moaned as Brian pushed him wider. Brian cupped the globes of his arse. Then, in an action that made George gasp, Brian ran his tongue in between them.

George twisted the coverlet in his hands. He didn't expect that. For a moment he was shocked anyone would want to do that, but Brian licked him again and all George could do was think about how bloody good it felt. Brian's tongue – his soft, wet, insistent tongue – licked along the outside of his arsehole without pause. It was more than George could process. He felt for a moment like his brain had shut off, like his entire consciousness had been subsumed into something else – something that was only pleasurable and flowed on and on.

Then Brian's tongue delved inside him, and George came back to reality. He cried out, lips curling out along his teeth. The sensation made him jerk against the bed, thrusting his cock into the covers. Then Brian moved his hands underneath George's legs, wrapped an arm around each and pulled George closer, pinning him against his mouth.

"Ohhh …" George moaned, as Brian's tongue entered him again, as Brian's lips sucked against him. At this point George didn't care how undignified he sounded, didn't care about what anyone would think about him naked and vulnerable against the coverlet, his manager's mouth against his arse. He just wanted more of this. He just wanted to moan and cry until his throat was hoarse, until there was nothing left.

Despite Brian's firm grip on him, George bucked forward again, eager for the friction of the fabric. He was only able to do it for a moment, but right after Brian pushed in further than ever. It was enough. George gave the covers another hard twist and arched his back as he orgasmed, crying out and coming against the coverlet.

When it was over, George turned over and collapsed on the bed, arms and legs spread out. He couldn't get control of his breathing. Brian crawled on top of him. George moaned a bit as he felt Brian's inner thighs rest outside of his, as he looked up at Brian. Brian's hair hung around his face, looked uncharacteristically mussed for him. He smiled, ran his fingers through George's hair.

"I …," George breathed, "I think I ruined your sheets, Eppy …"

Brian stared at George as if he were speaking Hindi. It made George smile stupidly. He was still high off his orgasm. Then George began to laugh – giddy and slightly nervous but mostly relieved. After a few moments, Brian laughed too.

"It's quite all right," Brian said.

George laughed again then threw his arms around Brian's neck. He kissed Brian on the cheek. "That was amazing."

Brian chuckled with embarrassment. "Thank you." He lowered himself so he was lying on top of George. They kissed.

"God," George moaned. "You were entirely right. I understand now. That was so much better than being fucked."

Brian suddenly tensed in his arms, and George realized his mistake. George tried to think of an explanation, but Brian lifted his upper body off George's chest, looked in George's eyes, and everything fell flat.

Then Brian smiled, although it seemed forced.

"I never know what to expect from you," he finally said.

George blinked. "Pardon?"

"When I met the four of you … I thought for sure you would be the one to give me the most trouble. You were so quiet, but not in the way Pete was quiet. He never seemed to have much to say, but you … you seemed so standoffish, so cold. I think you have your moments where you can, indeed, be very cold. Yet when I saw you smile the first time, saw the kindness in your eyes, I knew I wouldn't have to worry."

George wasn't sure what to say to all that. Brian pressed up against him. His mouth found George's lips, then his nose and eyebrows. George felt Brian's cock, fully erect, pressing against him. Going with his instincts, George locked his legs around Brian's waist. Brian's cock pressed against his own, and George moaned.

"I love you," Brian whispered. "You're one of my boys."

There was no question in George's mind of what that meant. He was one of The Beatles, and The Beatles were Brian's boys. George let his eyes roll back in his head as Brian rutted against him.

If seeing Brian without clothes was a shock, seeing him like this was mind-blowing. It seemed like some sort of switch had been thrown in Brian's brain and the utterly controlled, meticulously polite man in a suit and dinner jacket was gone. Brian fucked him with abandon, his eyes shut and his mouth open wide and groaning as he pressed himself against George. He kissed George's face all over, his breath hot on George's face. George gripped onto Brian's back, trying to get himself closer.

"Deeper," Brian moaned.

"What?"

"Dig your nails in."

"But won't that hurt?"

"Please …" Brian sounded so desperate, kept fucking George as he begged.

George complied, and Brian stiffened, hissed.

"Eppy?" George asked, worried, "Brian?"

"No," Brian whispered. "No, no, it's good." He took three deep breaths. His eyes were glazed over with lust. "Now, will you bite my shoulder?"

 _This is so weird_ , George thought.

"Please," Brian said again.

Unsure of what to do, George obeyed, sinking his teeth into Brian's shoulder. It tasted salty on his tongue from Brian's sweat.

"Harder," Brian begged.

After a moment's hesitation George bit Brian as hard as he could. He could feel Brian's flesh vibrate against his hands as Brian cried out his pleasure. George was as hard as he'd ever been in his life right now. This still felt strange to him but Brian's eagerness, his excitement, egged him on. George held his grip on Brian's back, on Brian's shoulder, as Brian continued to fuck him, his fingers trailing down Brian's back as it became slick with sweat.

George's second orgasm ripped through him with all the force of the first. He realized dimly that Brian was coming as well, could feel his spunk splattering against George's stomach. George cried out as he peaked, his sounds drowned out, muffled against Brian's shoulder.

They rolled away from each other when it was over, listening to the sound of the other one's breathing. George stared at the ceiling. Night had fallen, and sky behind the windows was completely dark now. The sound of a car driving echoed in from outside, and George flinched, feeling suddenly exposed. For a minute he wanted to be far away from here, somewhere nice and green. A garden, perhaps. Somewhere where no one could see him.

Then he looked at Brian. George rolled closer to him, and Brian reached his left arm around him. George rested against his side, then caught sight of Brian's left shoulder. An angry bruise had blossomed under the skin where George had bit him. George winced and reached out to touch it, but Brian suddenly clapped his free hand over it.

"We should get our sleep for tomorrow," Brian said.

George pulled his hand back. "All right."

Brian moved off the bed. George's legs were shaky as he stood up. Brian pulled the coverlet away; left it crumpled at the foot of the bed. Then the two of them got under the sheets together. They stayed apart, but after a while, George had the sense that Brian was looking at him. He looked to see it was true, and George curled into Brian's outstretched arms.

~*~*~

When they walked into Abbey Road together the next day, the first thing George noticed was the wide smile on Paul's face. Paul stood up almost immediately, wrapping George in a hug that nearly took the wind out of him.

"I'm so glad you're back," Paul whispered.

George laughed and hugged Paul back awkwardly. He hadn't quite forgiven him, but they had time enough for that, yet.

George patted Paul's back, then allowed himself to look around the room. Ringo had a smile on his face, nodded when he saw George staring at him. Brian beamed at George and Paul, as if proud of the two of them or proud of himself for bringing George back. Actually, Brian looked a bit like he was glowing.

"Good to have you back," Ringo said.

George nodded, he was about to say thank you.

Then he saw John.

John was looking at Brian. His eyes were wide, his mouth slack open. There was an unmistakable hurt in John's expression, and George felt like a hand had squeezed his heart.

Then John looked at him, and there was murder in his eyes.

End Part Two.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Abbey Road, so there may be some or many inaccuracies with the layout. Hope nobody minds. Also, all the best to sandoz_iscariot for her support and letting me write some of this at her house.

"Right. We need to talk."

George looked up from the sheet of lyrics in his hand – a Motown song he'd grown fond of some time ago and planned to sing on the album – and took the cigarette out of his mouth. John stared down at him, his leather cap in his hand. They were ending their session tonight, and Paul, Ringo and the others had just left the room, meaning he was alone with John.

George took a deep breath. He'd been bracing for this ever since he'd come in this morning, had tried to assure himself he'd done nothing wrong, and could defend himself to John if forced. "All right then. What do we need to talk about?"

John narrowed his eyes at George. "Meet me here early tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" George asked. He hadn't expected this, and he felt somewhat offended. "Why do we have to talk tomorrow? Why can't we talk now?"

"Look, just fucking come in tomorrow! Why do I have to …" John stopped. He took a deep, frustrated breath, and George took a petty pleasure in seeing John ashamed of his outburst. "I want us to talk alone. With nobody else."

"We could do that at the flat," George said.

"No, Ringo might be there," John said. "I want it to just be us."

"There's more people here than at the flat."

John shook his head. "Six o'clock in the morning. Nobody will be here."

"Since when do you get up that early?"

"Just come, all right."

George sighed. "Fine."

John nodded. He put on his cap, walked toward the door. "I'll sock you if you don't."

George played absently with the music sheets as the door closed. He wasn't sure if John wouldn't sock him anyway if he did show up, but George figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

 _Fuck him_ , George thought to himself, unfazed by the empty threat. John could fume all he wanted. It wouldn't take away last night. It wouldn't ruin anything good that had happened. George smiled to himself. Even though it was wrong, even though it felt to some extent like a betrayal of Brian, part of him felt like he had won.

~*~*~

The light was dim when George arrived at Abbey Road. The clouds that had shrouded the sky on his walk through Regent's Park broke into rain the previous night, but while the rain had abated the fog had not, had covered everything in a cool, gray haze.

The wet didn't bother George, but it made him want to go back to the flat and crawl into bed. The urge to sleep tugged on his eyelids, made him want to curl up against the cold. He'd drank a large cup of coffee before he'd left, but it hadn't done much, had just created a jittery core underneath the sleepiness.

On the bright side, his sleepiness made it easier not to dwell on what he would say to John.

The front doors felt heavier than normal as George opened them, and when they shut behind him, everything seemed a lot quieter. Even when the Beatles stayed in the studio late, usually some engineers stuck around but this morning the building was eerily silent. The sound of his shoes hitting the floor seemed too loud, like an unwelcome intrusion on the quiet.

George reached their recording studio, reached out to open the doors, then stopped.

"Shit," he whispered, and the muffled sounds behind the door seemed to echo his suspicion.

The three of them – John, Paul and himself – had lived in close quarters, had lived with very little privacy, for years. In that time, George had developed almost a sixth sense about knowing when one of the others was … well, doing something one should do in private in a space that was not.

George's breath caught in his throat. His face felt hot with anger and shame. He felt like running away.

Instead he raced to the second floor.

George entered the sound recording booth from the back way. He peered over the audio console, looking through the glass and down into the recording area below, knowing what he would see.

John had Brian sprawled out on his back on the brown-paneled floor of the studio. They were already naked; the only thing John wore was his glasses. John crouched over Brian, one hand wrapped in his hair and the other around his shoulders, Brian's legs hitched up near his hips. John was kissing him, too – wet, sloppy kisses with his mouth open and his tongue out, kisses that Brian returned just as eagerly.

John raised his head, and for a moment George wondered if John could see him. Then John reached over and grabbed onto a microphone lying on the floor.

The sound of their breathing filled the recording booth.

"Oh," George growled, "You son of a—"

"Yeah," John moaned over the speakers, "Yeah, you like that, don't you? You like that, you fucking queer."

"John …" Brian whispered, the word nearly drowned out in his rhythmic grunts of pleasure.

"Tell me. Tell me how much you like it," John whispered. "Tell me how much you like being with a real man."

At least twenty insults were running through George's head. He looked out into the studio again. John had Brian pinned to the ground by his hair. Brian looked up at him desperately, his cock firm against his stomach.

"John …" Brian begged.

"Say it. Say it or I'll stop."

Brian moaned in a way that sent a chill up George's spine. In one way, the sound felt far too familiar, but in another …

"I like it," Brian said.

"No," John gripped onto Brian's hair again, making him wince in pain. "Say it the right way. Say it the way I like it, you queer."

Brian exhaled, "I like it. I like being fucked by a real man. Do it again. Please John, do it again."

 _What the fuck?_ George fumed. He knew Brian had sex with John. He knew Brian would continue to have sex with other men. Why was this necessary? What the hell did this prove to him?

 _I should leave_ , he thought. There was no reason to watch this. And yet …

John thrust against Brian again, his hands splayed out on Brian's chest, his muscles tense as he moved. With every thrust a moan echoed throughout the room.

 _This doesn't upset me_ , George told himself. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it as the sounds of sex filled his ears.

George continued to watch as he smoked. John put the whole of his body into fucking Brian, moving his hips and his body in one arcing, fluid motion while Brian writhed on the floor, hands gripping for purchase where there wasn't any. John made his own noises now, loud grunts that echoed his every movement.

George rolled his eyes and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Good God. Next you'll be doing that stupid pig snort." He was about to take another puff when Brian moaned again, and then George was too busy reminding his body not to react to do anything.

John let out a cruel, gleeful laugh. "You're so tight, Eppy. You haven't done this in a while, have you?"

"John, please," Brian grasped for him, but John clasped his wrists. "No, John."

"Mmmm, but you'll do it for me, won't you? You'd do anything for _my_ cock, wouldn't you, you queer? I'm the one you want, aren't I?"

"Yes, I …" Brian broke off in a moan as John pressed the first two fingers of Brian's left hand into his mouth. "Oh God, John. Yes."

George didn't feel horny anymore. John bent over again to kiss Brian, open-mouthed and messy, and George thought John was trying too hard.

Then, his arms wrapped around Brian and Brian's arms wrapped around him, John licked along Brian's cheek. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and lifted up his eyes, staring straight at George.

George's first instinct was to freeze under John's gaze, but he fought it. (Even though Brian's constant moans, constant pleas for John's attention, messed with his focus.) Holding his cigarette in between two fingers, George leaned over the audio console, resting his palm against it, so his face was an inch away from the glass window of the booth. George pointed to his mouth with his free hand.

"You are stupid," George said, drawing out every word, hoping John could read his lips. "You are a fucking arsehole."

John snorted, then waggled his eyebrows. He placed his hands on the top of Brian's forearms, then dug in his fingers, running them down in a long, hard scratch that made Brian scream.

George felt himself shake. John just stared back at George. As he did, he ran his fingers over the purple bruise on Brian's shoulder. Possessiveness shot through George, but John licked the bruise, never breaking his glare as he did so.

Then, just when George thought the situation couldn't get any worse, Brian orgasmed.

John followed a few minutes after, but by that point George had already turned away, a hand clamped over his mouth.

George could hear the rustling sounds of John and Brian moving about below. He glanced back to see Brian starting to stand up, and George ducked beneath the console. He felt like an idiot, hiding like a child, but he didn't want Brian to see him.

"Are you all right?" Brian said over the microphone.

"No," George whispered, even though he knew the question wasn't for him.

"Smashing," John said, although he was using his stoic voice.

"You seemed distracted," Brian explained.

John didn't answer. George heard more movement for a while. He heard John make a sigh of disgust. He wondered what was going on, then Brian spoke again.

"You'd let me hug you at other times, John."

"Doesn't mean you need to completely fag it up."

"John," Brian said, although this time he didn't say his name as an eager lover, but as The Beatles' manager, "I woke up early in the morning just to meet you here."

"Don't act like you didn't want it."

"John," Brian warned.

George couldn't resist anymore. He crawled out and poked his head above the console so he could see out of the window.

They were both fully clothed now. John took off his glasses and approached Brian. He wrapped his arms around Brian, his glasses grasped in one fist. His eyes were closed, and his head rested against Brian's as if John were willing to stay there forever.

George took the opportunity to slip out the back door. He slammed it behind him, delighting in the bang. Then the image of himself – naked, lubed up and on all fours on top of a table – suddenly popped up in his mind, and he had to stop himself from breaking it.

~*~*~

When George came back to the studio again a few hours later, John was still there. Only this time, Paul and Ringo were there as well. They sat around the studio, Ringo hunched over his drum kit with sticks in hand, Paul writing something down – probably lyrics – on a sheet of paper while he stood over a table, his bass hanging from his shoulders. John stood next to Paul, his own Rickenbacker guitar resting on a nearby chair.

"You all right, George?" Ringo asked.

George ignored him and, while he knew it was petty, immediately went for John's guitar and picked it up. He forced himself to move at a leisurely pace as he pulled the strap over his head and started playing it. Everyone was looking at him like he was insane as he strummed the opening notes of "Raunchy," his fingers stumbling slightly over the notes on the unfamiliar guitar.

John glowered as he walked toward George. He reached out for the guitar, but George stepped back, still playing, before John's hand could close around the neck.

"Put. It. Down," John growled.

George stopped playing, looked down at the Rickenbacker like he had never seen it before. "Oh, this was yours?" George took the strap from his shoulders and held it out, trying not to smirk when John snatched it out of his hands. "I couldn't tell because you didn't piss on it."

"George!" Paul exclaimed.

"Cute," John said, ignoring Paul. "The baby can make metaphors. Maybe if we lock him in a room where he can't take what isn't his he'll actually write a song."

It took all of George's strength not to punch John in the mouth. Paul approached the both of them like he was coming upon two junkyard dogs, his hands out to calm them. "Look, I don't know what's between you two, but …"

"… but it's clearly not about guitars," Ringo finished.

"We have an album to record," Paul said. "At the end of the day, we can work this out."

"Stay out of this!" George said, his anger at Paul resurfacing with such a vengeance he didn't feel guilty for yelling. He looked back at John. "And I didn't take anything. He's not yours."

Ringo's eyes widened. "Um … I think I agree with Paul. This isn't the best time for …"

"He's more mine than yours, you little shit," John shot back. "If he was yours you would have fucked him like a real man and not let him lick your pussy."

George wanted to say something as cutting and crushing back, but stopped when he saw Paul's face had turned white. He'd only seen Paul like that once before, and he couldn't remember what it was about now but he knew it involved a girl.

"George," Paul said, his voice wavering, "What is he talking about?"

George stared back at him blankly. Paul's reaction flabbergasted him. He seemed on the verge of becoming very upset. George was ready to think up an excuse or deflect, but then Ringo let out a long sigh.

"Paul," Ringo said. "You have to know. I knew the moment they walked in the door."

"They?" Paul asked, and his voice was practically gone now.

Ringo got out from behind his drums and went over to Paul. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Paul removed the bass from about his shoulders, set it on a nearby table as he sat down hard in an empty chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands folded under his chin. "Yeah, I'm … I'm all right." Although when Ringo tried to touch his shoulder, Paul held up his hand like he was ready to swat Ringo's away. Then Paul's face scrunched up, and he looked at George. "God, really?" he asked.

He actually sounded disgusted.

George felt something inside him snap. He crossed his arms and glared at the others. "Yes. Yes, Paul, I did sleep with Brian. Considering everything, I don't see why you care."

"How can you say that?" Paul asked, his voice on the edge of a yell.

"Look!" Ringo held up his hands. "I know we're all upset right now, but I don't think screaming is going to …"

John laughed – a loud, bitter laugh that struck George as theatric. "I'm not upset, Ringo. What do I have to be upset about? George is the one who can't handle being rejected."

George scoffed. "This from the most ridiculously insecure man in the world?"

"Watch your mouth," John snapped.

"No," George said, trying to crush the last bit of waver in his voice. "I don't care what you think. I don't care what you do or what stupid stunt you pull. At least Brian and I had something. He had to ask before you could even pretend you cared about him."

George heard the slap before he could process the pain, before he could be aware of the others screaming at John. George groaned as he hit the floor, as John leaped on top of him, a part of George's shirt in one hand, his other hand poised to slap him again.

George winced at the second blow, but a stupid part of his brain, the part that was too angry to care about self-preservation, demanded he speak again.

"Go on. Go on and beat me up. It worked so well on Bob, didn't it?"

"You don't know what I feel!" John screamed, his face an inch from George's. "None of you know what I feel. You're all a bunch of queers, a bunch of back-stabbing faggots! None of you understand!"

George felt his head hit the floor as Paul and Ringo pulled John off him. George pushed himself up on his elbows to look at them. John wrenched out of their grip, although he didn't try to attack George again. Instead, he just stood there, hunched over, his cheeks streaked with tears.

Ringo and Paul stood on either side of George, as if protecting him. Both of them were glaring at John, not an inch of sympathy in their faces. A part of George wanted to use the opportunity to really get back at John, to point out the obvious fact that he was crying over a man while he called them queers. And yet …

"You …," a sob escaped John's mouth. "You fucking faggots!"

"John," Paul pointed at a spot beyond John's back. "Turn around and shut the fuck up."

John did, turning so that George could see. Brian stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face red with anger.

They were all silent. Ringo lightly tapped George on the shoulder, then offered him a hand. George took it and let Ringo help pull him to his feet. However, other than that, nobody moved.

"What," Brian said, drawing out the word, "is going on here?"

"I …"

"Not you, John."

"But ..."

"No," Brian said. "Someone else. I want somebody else to tell me what's happened."

Paul immediately looked in the other direction. "Nothing."

Brian looked at George, and George felt his heart stop for a moment. Brian took another quick glance toward John.

"Ringo," Brian finally said.

Ringo blinked. "Yes?"

"Meet me in the hall," Brian said, already turned around and walking away.

Ringo followed. As he passed by him, John sneered.

"If you fucking snitch, I swear …"

"Oh piss off," Ringo said. "I let you touch me cock. I'll do as I please." He slammed the door behind him.

A hush fell over the room, making George conscious of the pain that lingered in his jaw. John was staring at the ground, vaguely shaking as he stood off to the side. Paul, on the other hand, had his chin up high, the soft curves of his face hard as steel. It bothered George, and as Paul continued not to move, it bothered him even more.

"Paul?" George asked.

"Don't talk to me," Paul said.

George flinched. "I … I didn't figure you'd be that upset."

"You figured wrong." Paul stalked over to the piano and sat down at it. His face was sour as he lifted up the fall.

John raised his head and snorted. "What's this?" he asked. His tone was mocking, but tired. "Going to write a song? Going to send a secret code about your special love affair?"

"Go away," Paul said, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. "Both of you."

"We can't go anywhere," George said. "The two of them are outside."

"Then go into the recording booth. Just leave me alone." Paul tested two notes, then immediately began to play the solo of "Great Balls of Fire."

John trod toward the stairs and George – not wanting to but at a loss for anything else to do – followed him up the stairs and into the recording booth. John sat on one of the chairs in the booth as George shut the door.

The soundproofed room shut out Paul's playing, so the silence between the two of them felt thick and oppressive. John sat staring into space. He wasn't crying any longer, but he still shook, occasionally sniffled as if struggling to keep back his tears. With Paul furious at them (well, at George) and Brian outside the studio talking to Ringo, George felt like the recording booth had taken on the atmosphere of the headmaster's office, with John as the bully who had finally been caught.

There was a part of George that wanted to feel triumphant over that, but when he thought about John and Brian on the floor together, he really couldn't. The full implications of everything John had said, everything Paul had done, hit him, and George felt lost. He buried his face in his hands.

"I can be gentle with him, you know," John finally said, his voice hoarse.

George raised his head, looked at John. "Excuse me?"

"I said I can be gentle," John repeated, defiant now. "The first time with him I didn't even touch him. I just let him toss me off."

George rolled his eyes. "Oh aye, but I'm sure you were a real man when you did it, weren't you?"

John scowled and turned away. "That's not what I meant," he muttered. "I just meant it isn't always like that."

"But that's what you wanted to show me," George snapped.

John sighed.

"I don't know why you're upset," George said, leaning back on his chair. "You're hardly a model of fidelity."

"What's mine is mine," John said. "If another man touched Cynthia I'd rip his fucking legs off."

"Cynthia's your wife, though," George said. "Is Brian obligated to only be with you? Does he?"

John snorted and waved a hand dismissively in George's direction. "Brian gets his jollies getting down on his knees for a teddy boy or licking some rocker's bootstrap."

George blinked, feeling a little sick. God, he'd never heard that before.

"That doesn't bother you?" George asked incredulously.

"They're slags," John said. "They're no different than the birds we take to bed. It's one thing to get fucked. It's another to shit where your mate is eating."

George narrowed his eyes. "Funny, that."

John glanced at George, he then stiffened, as if he'd felt a cold draft.

"You never would have acted upon it if I hadn't done anything," he said.

"Fuck you!" George stood up and pointed a finger at John. "Don't act like you did me and Paul a fucking favor."

"Well," John said, "It didn't do any favors for meself, certainly."

George sighed and sat back down. "Fine for you to acknowledge that now that you've made us all miserable."

John gave no reply to that.

For the next five minutes nothing was said. George thought over all that had happened, and a question he didn't want answered came into his brain and stuck there until it itched.

"So Brian told you everything," George said glumly.

"Don't be angry at him," John said, more commanding than pleading. "I ask … I forced him to tell me. He was here at half-past four and I had him go over the whole lot." John shook his head, when he spoke his voice was cracking again. "Every sodding detail. He looked bloody knackered when I asked him. He couldn't understand why I was so upset. He said a lot of the same things as you, about Cynthia and Patricia and all the other birds. Kept asking me why it mattered when he already lov –"

John swallowed hard. His hand curled into a fist.

"He could have lied. He could have lied and he didn't. He fucking held me. I shouldn't have fucking asked."

George edged back on his chair. He had trouble listening to all this. John looked so sorry, was clearly making himself miserable, and yet the invasion of George's privacy seemed yet another incident in a string of humiliations.

"He's too good for the likes of you," George sneered.

"Well, he's not your type either," John said. "You think of him as this sweet thing, this kindly old grownup who'd never hurt you –"

"Don't patronize me!"

"But he's not. Your eyes were like to pop out of your head when I told ye about the fags he's like to fuck. There's more where that came from. There are far worse things he's done, worse than anything I showed you this morning. You think you could be enough for him?" John snorted. "Ha!"

"You weren't there," George bristled. "You don't know what went on. I did everything he asked for. I made him happy."

"He likes being told what to do." John raised his head, his lips pursed. "Everything you saw I was able to do because he allowed it. That's why he's mine, no matter what happened between the two of you."

George folded his hands and squeezed them together, trying to keep them still.

"Did he know I was watching, then?" he asked, trying to hold his voice steady. "Did he allow you to do that?"

John turned his head back toward the floor, an angry look on his face. He had no answer. George knew he wouldn't.

George sighed. There was an ache inside him that he didn't feel should be there, a part of him that knew what he'd had was fleeting but wanted to hold onto it all the same.

Still, he was realizing he had to let it go.

"John?" George asked. "Do you love him?"

John made a dismissive "pffff" noise and rolled his eyes, "I'm not a –"

"Do you love him, John?" George asked, his voice a demand. He could feel his hands shake against each other.

John looked at George, the bravado melted from his face.

"I'm married," he whispered. "I have a son."

George just stared at him. John's eyes turned down to the floor.

"Yes."

George let out a breath. He hadn't wanted to hear that word, but was glad John said it, nevertheless. John's entire body shook. George reached out a hand and placed it on John's knee.

"Christ," John moaned. He placed his own hand over George's. "Christ …"

"Listen. We … we've always had an understanding with each other," George said, borrowing Paul's words. "You don't have to tell anyone else. And Paul's right, we won't tell anyone either. You say he doesn't mind when you treat him badly, but you still shouldn't be so ashamed of him, ashamed of this."

"What are you going on about?" John asked, his voice ragged.

"You've had lots of affairs with women and not had to punch anyone for saying so, or do worse to us," George said. "If they deserve that courtesy, doesn't he as well?"

John mindlessly stroked George's hand. He stared into space.

"All right," he said.

John's hand rested on George's for some time more. George forced a smile. He couldn't deny how much this hurt, but something about it felt right.

Static filled the room, and the sound startled them enough that George and John broke away from each other.

"Brian wants you, John," Paul said over the speakers.

John let out a breath. His body was stiff as he got up and exited the room.

George followed after, staring down into the recording studio as he descended the stairs. Paul was still at the piano, although his fingers rested lightly on the keys instead of striking them. Brian looked up at George and John with a stern expression while Ringo, sheepish, stood a foot behind him.

John walked over to Brian. Even from the back, George could see how nervous, how humbled he was. Paul turned away from the piano to look at them.

"I'm sorry," John whispered.

Brian shook his head. "It's not me you should be apologizing to."

John looked about him. His gaze first rested on Ringo, who nodded, as if to say it was all right, then he turned back, his eyes flashing between George and Paul.

"I'm sorry, mates," he said.

Paul nodded stiffly.

"Thank you," George said.

Brian smiled – that sweet, charming smile that made it hard to imagine Brian could ever be angry even if George had seen him so in the past.

"Good," Brian said, then looked at the others. "I expect we won't be getting much done today. Paul, you can go home."

Paul turned back to the piano. "No. I think I'll hang about here for a bit."

"All right. Don't stay too late. Will you meet me outside, John?"

John nodded. As John left the room, George realized Brian was looking at him.

"Are you all right?" Brian asked.

George felt his heart skip a beat. He forced a smile. "Of course," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Brian stared back at him with something like pity. George bit his lip.

"I'll be fine," George said.

Brian stepped forward, his hand outstretched. He cupped his palm under George's chin and let his thumb run down the line in his cheek.

"I'm sorry, as well," Brian said.

"You didn't know," George said, although speaking felt like trying to see through a fog. He could feel Paul staring at him, and realized how much he had wished Brian would say something else. John was right, and George really couldn't compete with him.

Brian moved his hand to George's shoulder, squeezed it.

"You're a good lad," Brian said. It sounded like another apology. Then he left as well.

Ringo stood awkwardly near the door as George caught his eye. Ringo pointed behind him.

"I think I'll be off as well," Ringo said. "Leave the two of you alone and all that."

"Really?" George asked. "Are you all right? How do you feel in all this?"

Ringo blinked. He stared at George as if he didn't understand what he'd been asked. Then he shrugged.

"I'm fine. I was angry for a bit. But, well … what am I to do? What's done is done and all that. And I was curious about it, anyway. It's not as if I had it as bad as you lot."

"Do you want to talk about it?" George asked.

"No. I need some privacy. And I've had enough of sharing for now." Ringo pulled his jacket about his shoulders. "See you later George, Paul." The door closed with a click behind him as he went.

That left the two of them. Paul closed the fall over the piano keys. George went to his side, hoping to speak with him even though the thought of doing so right after his conversation with John made him ill.

"I'll get over this, you know," Paul finally said, although he still wouldn't look at George. "You didn't do anything wrong, really. I had just … I don't know. I'd hoped it was the same for you."

"I don't understand," George said.

Paul sighed. "I'd hoped I was the only man you had wanted to do that with. I suppose it's not fair. Or some sort of ego thing. But we've known each other so long and I never had much interest in any other man."

George's froze. He hadn't expected Paul to say that.

"But you said to John –"

"Look." Paul stood up, pushing the piano bench back. He stepped out from behind it so he was face-to-face with George. "John's my best friend. He knows me very well, and that also means he knows the best way to get under my skin. That's all that was. He was just presenting it in the worst way possible because he wanted to hurt me."

George rocked on his heels a bit. "But he was right."

"Well, maybe partly, but …" Paul scratched the back of his head, let out a sigh as he stared at the floor. "Okay, I … I've been in love, right? Like with Dot. I really wanted her. I mean, you saw her. She was pretty. When I first met her I wanted to fuck her. I fell in love with her partly because I wanted to fuck her, but that doesn't mean I was any less in love."

George faltered as Paul looked up at him expectantly. He shook his head. "That's different. Lust is a part of love. Not this weird political shit."

"You're missing the point, George. A lot of messy, ugly emotions are involved in love. That doesn't mean it still isn't love or that love isn't wonderful."

The words, the sentiment, seemed very applicable to George at the moment. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"And that bit about you being on my side," Paul said. "John wasn't quite right. You're like my baby brother. I care about you. I wish it all didn't happen this way."

Paul stepped closer. George tried to move back, but Paul wrapped his arms around him, held him like he was pinning him, his right hand firm about George's hips while his left gripped onto George's hair. And then Paul kissed him.

The kiss was fierce, insistent. Paul practically chewed on George's lips as his tongue invaded George's mouth. George didn't kiss back, couldn't kiss back. He couldn't even bring himself to hug Paul, let his arms freeze in the air out of shock. Part of him wanted to respond. He could feel his body stir at Paul's touch even now. And yet another part of him couldn't ignore how desperate it all felt.

Paul let him go, his hands lingering on George's body as he pulled away.

"I hate this distance between us," Paul said.

George shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Paul. You just surprised me."

"No. No, it's more than that. We couldn't even act as friends at the cinema together. And why couldn't we talk about this thing between us before then? Why did John have to get involved?"

George shrugged. "I don't know. I … Well, how do you talk about something like this, anyway?"

"I suppose …"

George said nothing. Paul placed his hands on George's forearms.

"You know," he said slowly. "Sometimes there's a part of me that regrets introducing you to John at all."

George's eyes widened. He'd never heard anything like this before. "Why?"

"I wanted to keep you for myself," Paul said, his grip becoming a little tighter. "I wanted to keep what we had from everyone else. And I keep worrying you're going to slip away from me, that I'll lose you entirely. If you want to really know the ugly reason behind why I did it, behind why I want you on my side, that's why."

George inhaled sharply. Paul's hands felt uncomfortably tight. A wave of guilt overtook him.

"I can't imagine we would ever not be friends," George said.

"I hope so," Paul said. "I have to tell you: I love my life as it is now. I don't want any part of it to end."

George chuckled, although the sound was weak. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

The corner of Paul's mouth curled in an attempt at a smile. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you are."

Paul gave George's arms another squeeze, then he bobbed his head toward the door. Without a word, George followed, trying to hold onto the quiet satisfaction he felt, and not the undercurrent of defeat.

~*~*~

A few days later, John asked to see George early in the morning again. John had been true to his word, and while nothing could prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard, he had stopped taunting the three of them. Brian still got a bit of it, but George had never expected that to stop and even that had abated.

Nevertheless, George approached Abbey Road that morning with trepidation. The sound of his feet echoing along the corridors reminded him of what had happened last time. So he was surprised when he opened the door to see John just sitting there, two sheets of paper in his hand.

"Right," John said, and handed George one of the sheets. "I talked it over with Eppy and George Martin. I think we should sing this song together."

George read the lyrics, which were scribbled down in John's handwriting. "I know this. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles."

"Right. I want us to try it out together."

George nodded. "Fine. But won't we know how it would sound better if we practiced with Paul?"

"I'm not singing this with Paul, George. I want to sing it with you. Just you."

"Me?" George gripped onto the paper, causing it to make a crinkling noise. "But it's always you and Paul who do the duets. And this isn't a duet, anyway. It doesn't make sense as a duet."

"I want to sing this with you. I can't do that for once?" John sprang to his feet. "And we're not going to sing to each other. I want you on harmony." He put an arm around George's shoulders. "Now, I'm going to sing the lyrics, and you come in a little lower. And on the chorus I'm going to sing a line alone, then you repeat me. Then I yell 'Baby,' and we come in together. Just like The Miracles did it only it's just you."

John's instructions were simple enough, and after an hour of practice the two of them almost had it where John wanted it. Through all of this, John kept his arm on George's shoulders, only moving it slightly to wave as Brian walked in the door.

"Hi, Eppy," John said with a smile. He gripped onto George tighter. "Like what you see? Does it get you hot?"

Brian sighed. "I'm only here this early to meet with Martin," he said, although he made no move to leave.

John patted George on the shoulder and they began to sing again, Brian watching intently while their voices blended and complimented each other, before splitting off and coming together again. And while a twinge of jealousy still, and always would, tug at George's heart, when he saw the utter contentment on Brian's face, he couldn't be sad at all.

The End.


End file.
